If Looks Could Kill
by thegiantess
Summary: Basilisk strikes, Hermione is beyond saving. Ron's reaction? Review me!


_Hi There!_

_Something a little bit different. AU. The basilisk isn't released until 5__th__ Year, Hermione is petrified and beyond saving. I know that it's not the same as sleeping, but whatever. Review?_

_Love, Bea xxx_

She sleeps in the morning and she sleeps at night. At any point during the day, if you look at her, you can be sure that she's sleeping. That's all she ever does; all she's ever done for a long time. She doesn't know how many hours have passed by since yesterday faded away. She doesn't even know if tomorrow is coming. To her, every minute seems like an hour. Every hour seems like a year. And every year seems like an eternity. She's probably the first human to figure out how long that is. She deserves some sort of an award. A pitch black, granite plaque, with golden lettering that announces her brilliance to anyone who happens to look. All she has to do is wake up. Her future's bright, if she'd just open her eyes.

If you asked her, though, none of that really matters because she's always enjoyed sleeping. It was never just _rest_ for her. Those were the only eight hours she could be worriless...almost emotionless. With blankets covering her shivering body and a mattress relaxing her aching back, she felt like she was in heaven. She could sink into herself; let her own thoughts cover her eyes and kiss her goodnight. She's always liked that feeling. Now, she does what she loves twenty four hours a day, seven days a week_. __Well, that's stupid._ Doesn't she know that she's ruining herself? Why doesn't she get up and make something of her life? Because she just can't. Because she's _sleeping._ It's not like she _knows_ that she's wasting time. When the Basilisk's stare reflected off of her mirror into her eyes, she was gone. She didn't realize what was happening and she still doesn't. She doesn't know how many people have come to visit her in her sanitized hospital room to try and wake her up…to _save_ her. Her golden years are sliding right through her fingers, but what can she do? Nothing.

At least she has an excuse.

She's nothing like Ron Weasley, who does the same thing deliberately. Ron also has a habit of letting the days repeat themselves. Ever since the Basilisk, he's been waiting. Waiting for his best friend to wake up. He lives off what his parents can afford to give him, because he can't handle the task of finding a job that will take him, with no O.W.L.'s or N.E.W.T's. It would be too painful. It's not like he has the time to do it anyway. Every morning, he leaves his house in his small, banged-up car. He drives to St. Mungo's, and makes his way into a room; it's the same room every time. He approaches the bed, and he stands beside it, staring at the young girl who lays on it…sleeping. Sometimes, Ron dares to touch the girl's face softly and whisper a few words. Sometimes, he finds it in himself to give the girl a report about things going on in the world; the rising of Lord Voldemort, the fact that Harry's shagged his way around the whole of the sixth year, and the seventh and probably most of the fifth as well.

Sometimes, he sits in a chair, stroking the girl's arm tenderly. His eyes, although watery, are crinkled upwards. He almost seems happy. Of course, he's not. He's not happy, he's not really smiling. What he's doing is remembering out loud. He's going to that place in the back of his mind where his best friend could always be forced to wake up, _eventually._ Hermione. _His_ Hermione…with the wide, brown eyes, tousled hair, and that ever-present grin. _His_ Hermione, who always knew just what to say and just what to do; who was just perfect, because she _couldn't_ be anything else. She understood everyone; she _loved_ everyone, including herself. Unlike Ron, Hermioine never had an itching feeling inside her that told her she was worthless; that she was going nowhere, that she wasn't as good as _"famous Harry Potter"_. Hermione thought she could do _anything._ The mere thought that her dreams _wouldn't_ come true was not even existent. Ron had always felt a tiny pang of jealousy because of it. However, he doesn't want to admit it. It seems shallow and insignificant. He just wants to remember himself and Hermione, together. He wants to remember _his_ Hermione who had kissed him once, and only once, after their first tastes of firewhiskey in the Gryffindor common room. She had leant over and smashed those delicate petal pink lips against his, her eyes closed in rapture, even if the collision of lips only lasted briefly. Even though the embrace was never mentioned again by anyone, the taste is still on his tongue and in his mind. Ron never stops thinking of that one kiss, even though a few other lips had smashed into his after Hermione's. He regrets that now. It makes him want to cough out all his insides because they have risen up to his throat. He feels like a traitor. A filthy, greedy scumbag. How could he do that to his 'Mione?

Despite all of this, most of the time when he visits Hermione, he only cries. He breaks down and cries through the whole day, until it's time to leave. _What a waste._

Today, though, is very different from any other day. Today just doesn't align…it doesn't fit. Ron feels horrible. He stumbles into his friend's room with a dazed look on his face. He's in tears already. As he approaches the bed, his hands tremble aggressively. He falls to his knees and before he can change his mind, his mouth opens. He hopes to God that something will come out.

"Hermione? 'Mioneeee?," he breathes out the girl's name erratically.

That's all he can manage, but why does it really matter? It's not like she can hear him. Ron stays frozen in kneeling position for a while, weeping. It's the only thing he could do. Hermione was going to _die. __F_inally, he gathers some strength to rise to his feet. He barely sees through his blurry, swimming eyes. Hermione seems sad, as if she wants Ron to do something about this. Well, what was he supposed to do when her mother had already signed the form? How could she do that to her own daughter? After only _three_ years? It's so _stupid;_ a bloody piece of paper deciding it was _okay_ to kill Hermione. Ron sobbed and roared and bawled and wailed, filling the room with the melancholy sounds. If it were up to him, he'd keep Hermione alive until the world exploded. It doesn't matter how much it costs. Hermione is a gift from heaven and she deserves to stay … she _has_ to. She can't be put in a wooden box, and _buried,_ with only a slab of rock to commemorate her lack of years on Earth.

Ron rubs his eyes, although they don't dry up. He slowly reaches forward, to touch Hermione's cheek. It's so soft, so smooth, and it's _real;_ not like some cold marble statue. He shivers and moves his fingers down to clasp her hand. He feels no pressure around his palm, and this makes the tears flow faster down his cheeks. A loud, agonized scream leaves his mouth. He wants to say something meaningful to her, but he doesn't have the time, or, frankly, the brains.

"Mr. Weasley?" a frustratingly quiet, calm voice asks from behind him.

Ron jumps backwards from the bed and looks at the young doctor. He wants to scream and say that his name is _not_ Mr. Weasley. It never was. It's _Ronald _because that's what Hermione always used to call him when he asked to copy her homework. Instead, he does nothing, says nothing and waits for the doctor to speak.

"Miss Granger's mother would like to see her now."

Ron sniffs and wipes his tear stained face with his hand. He doesn't _care_ if it's unhygienic and disgusting, he doesn't carry Tissues. He gazes at Hermione for a long moment and lets out a whimper. He doesn't want to leave.

"Do you need a minute?" the doctor asks.

Ron shakes his head because he needs more. A minute isn't long enough…nor an hour, a year, or an eternity. He moves closer to his best friend and takes her hand. He tries to feel it, actually _feel_ it, so that he can remember how it used to squeeze him back. It doesn't work, it isn't enough. Ron sighs and loosens his grip. Then, something boils up inside of him and he screams. He stomps his feet and he screams, ignoring the doctor's cries of _"Mr. Weasley! Calm down!"_ In the middle of his tantrum, his voice just _screeches_ to a stop. Tears are all that remained. Silent, mournful, sorrowful droplets of salt water. Ron leans forward so that he can feel Hermione's cheek pressing against his. He's ready to collapse now; he wants to die with his Hermione. Then, he does something that shouldn't have been delayed for this long. He slides his lips over to meet his friend's. The feeling's familiar and it's nice. He tries to soak it in, even though he doesn't feel any response from her. He doesn't know what to expect, but he knows what to wish for…maybe, with this kiss, Hermione will wake up. Like Sleeping Beauty (she'd read him the muggle fairytale, what seemed like a life time ago, in the Gryffindor common room, late one night). Salty droplets drip down onto her face. Nothing happens. Ron quivers and pulls away. He supposes that he's not Prince Charming; he isn't good enough to bring Hermione back into the waking world. He's not magic.

"I love you, 'Mione…" he whispers, as if he's speaking to himself.

He closes his eyes and remembers her voice; it was so childish and innocent… and _perfect._ It used to make him giggle. And then he hears it. _"I love you too, Ronald"_ The sound isn't even a murmur. It's as quiet as the sound of his breathing, but he can almost _touch_ it; that's how close it is. How real it is. His eyes flicker open with anticipation and he glances towards the doctor, who seems to have left the room. Ron quickly glances at Hermione. The girl looks the same, still stained with his tears. She also looks untouched and new. There's no sign of any movement, she's still fast asleep. But Ronald Bilius Weasley has never been more certain about _anything_ in his entire life; he heard Hermione say those magical words. Because sometimes, you just _need_ to hear it. You need the magic. You need the fantasy. Sometimes, you just _need_ the hope.


End file.
